


Love Is for Children

by Lauralot



Series: Alexander Pierce should have died slower [4]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Age Play, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bed-Wetting, Daddy Kink, Gen, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Non-Sexual Age Play, Past Abuse, Past Brainwashing, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Sexual Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-15
Updated: 2014-06-15
Packaged: 2018-02-04 19:35:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1790728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lauralot/pseuds/Lauralot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky understands how the game works.  He can't understand why it makes Steve cry.</p><p>But Natasha and the other Avengers are there to help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love Is for Children

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Father's Day I'm going to hell.
> 
> Well, maybe not, because this story is significantly less soul-crushing and horrific than its [predecessor](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1709594).
> 
> I had no real plans to write a sequel to the first story, so you can thank kellyc and the anonymous comment in [this thread](http://archiveofourown.org/comments/10708925), as well as [this post](http://marvel-cinekink.livejournal.com/751.html?thread=295151#t295151) from the Marvel-Cinekink community, for the ideas that inspired this story.
> 
> This story does not contain the abuse and rape present in the previous story, but they are referenced and Bucky does a lot of blaming himself, as a warning.

  
**"Love is for children."**

\- Natasha Romanoff, _The Avengers_

  


“I love you.”

Those are not the first words the man from the bridge says when he corners the asset. He says many things as he approaches, hands out, weaponless, words that spill over the asset alongside a tide of unidentifiable emotions. “You’re safe,” the man says, and “I won’t hurt you,” and “Bucky,” and “Bucky, Bucky, _Bucky,_ ” until it no longer sounds like a name or even a word. It is an inevitability, a promise that this man will not stop pursuing him, but it isn’t until he says “You’re my best friend and I love you,” that the asset stops searching for an escape. 

The man’s hand is on his shoulder, drawing him close, and the asset is hugged tight against his broad chest, the same hand running up and down his back as “I’ve got you, Bucky, I’ve got you,” is whispered in his ear. The asset does not think to pull away. The only thing he can think of is love. He does not know what it means to love, but he knows how to imitate it. That lesson was likely learned with his head held down in his master’s lap. 

He thought he had envisioned all possible outcomes of this pursuit, but that the man on the bridge might want to play his daddy’s games is not something the asset ever imagined. 

HYDRA is exposed and Pierce is dead. This man seeks to take his place. The asset allows himself to be led, almost at ease now that he knows what to expect from this familiar stranger. He can be a good boy and a good weapon. He can ignore the screaming in his head and do as he is told. And he will be safe and protected and cared for. 

There are worse things, the asset thinks. He doesn’t know what, but there must be. 

*

The man from the bridge calls himself Steve and takes the asset, whom he calls Bucky, to a tower. When they arrive the man from the helicarrier who’d had wings is there, as is a red-haired woman Bucky thinks he shot. There are others, a SHIELD agent named Barton, a Dr. Banner, and a man who introduces himself as “Tony Stark, proud owner of the Avengers Tower for misfits and frozen super soldiers, can I show you to your room, snowflake?” 

There is a sound in Bucky’s mind like broken glass over dead leaves and he pins Tony Stark to the wall, metal arm shoving into his throat. It takes Steve, Barton, and Banner to pull him away and once they have him, he goes slack, awaiting a beating or a chair with restraints, or a combination of the two. 

But all they do is ask why he attacked. Bucky doesn’t know why. He can’t determine the source of his rage and he can’t grasp the lack of punishment for it or the lack of freezing or memory wipes in the days that follow. 

If they want him as a child rather than a weapon, their actions almost make sense. Little boys—bad little boys—are erratic, and he becomes erratic without recalibration. But every time he thinks they are initiating a game, it abruptly ends. Banner will beckon him over to teach Bucky meditation and redirect him when he tries to sit in the man’s lap. Barton will ask him to help cook and then move his hands if Bucky tries to suck the sauce from his fingers. And whenever Steve says good night, he does so from a doorway, leaving down the hall before Bucky can get up and say it back properly. 

This is a test, he decides. His last Daddy hadn’t wanted him to be a little boy all the time either; Bucky just knew deep down when it was wanted. These people are waiting for him to have that knowing for their own desires. 

He thinks he has finally figured it out when Steve brings him the bear. 

*

“Hey Buck.” Steve is leaning in the doorway when Bucky looks up from putting new sheets onto the bed. “Mind if I come in?” 

Bucky does not flinch because flinching is a manipulation. He has been here for sixteen days and has managed to actually sleep on six occasions, last night included. And every time, when he comes around paralyzed from nightmares he can’t recall upon waking, he is cold and drenched. One of the few practical, nonlethal skills his mind remembers is how to do laundry, and it’s likely his ability to clean up after himself that has kept him from punishment for so long. 

But punishment was inevitable. Good boys don’t wet the bed. 

With a nod, Bucky debates how to position himself. It depends on the punishment, doesn’t it? Steve doesn’t have a belt, so he’s either going to be hit or turned over the man’s knee. Maybe he should remain standing until he’s told where to go, but his legs are suddenly shaky and weak and he ends up sitting on the mattress. 

Steve sits beside him. “I know this is gonna sound hokey,” he says. “And feel free to slug me if you need to, but I thought this might help.” 

It’s only then that Bucky notices the thing Steve’s holding. It’s a teddy bear. It looks small, but everything looks small in Steve’s hands. The bear is golden brown and wearing an outfit of blue and red. 

“It’s a Bucky Bear,” Steve says, and his face tinges pink. “They, uh, they started making them while we were overseas, toward the end of the war. Bucky Bears and Captain Ameribears.” 

The bear looks that old. Was it Steve’s before the war? Did Bucky used to play with Steve the way he played with his daddy, and HYDRA wiped that away with everything else? 

“Tony tracked one down after everything in New York. Seemed to think it was the only way I’d be sleeping with anyone. But yeah. I had trouble with dreams once I got out of the ice—kept waking up thinking I was frozen again. And this thing—just, not being alone when I woke up, I guess—it actually helped.” He shrugs, offers it to Bucky. “I was hoping it might do the same for you.” 

Bucky takes the bear, stares into its dead glass eyes and hugs it to his chest. He should start carrying it everywhere, he thinks, because that is what children do with beloved toys. But for now he sets it down on the pillow. He has been given a gift, a precious one. And daddies need to be thanked for giving their little ones presents. His stomach hurts, but he’s been bad enough during his stay here and he’s going to be a good boy this time no matter what. “Thank you.” 

“It’s nothing—I mean, it might not—” he says as Bucky shifts on the bed, metal hand on his new Daddy’s thigh. The opposite hand slides open Daddy’s zipper. Daddy isn’t hard yet, but he thinks he remembers his last daddy having problems with that sometimes too. Bucky can fix that. He knows a lot of tricks with his mouth that grown-ups like. 

He is lowering his head into Daddy’s lap when Daddy’s hands grab his face. He expects to be shoved down, but instead he is pulled up and he can’t read his daddy’s expression when their eyes meet. “Buck— _Bucky_ ,” Daddy stammers. “What are you _doing_?” 

He’s doing what he’s supposed to, isn’t he? Bucky must have messed up somehow. “Was I supposed to use my mouth?” he asks, because sometimes he’s opened zippers that way. He shouldn’t _have_ to ask. He should know. He’s being bad again and his stomach is all in knots. His hands are free and he moves the right one to Daddy’s lap, stroking the fabric of Daddy’s briefs. Maybe he can still fix this, maybe—

“Bucky, _don’t_ —” Daddy pushes his hand away, pale and wide-eyed and mouth open. It’s a look he never saw on his last daddy’s face no matter how angry Bucky had made him, and he feels cold and sick to realize he’s been this bad without even knowing what it is he’s done. “What are y—that’s not— _why_ —” Daddy cuts himself off, swallows. 

It is a long time before he speaks again and the silence hurts worse than a belt. “Talk to me, Buck,” Daddy says finally, and it sounds like he is trying very hard to keep his voice steady. “Tell me what you’re trying to do.” 

What he’s trying to do now is keep from crying. Knowing that crying is bad and manipulative doesn’t make it any easier to hold back tears. That his mind is broken isn’t usually a hindrance in these games, but now he can’t work out what he’s done wrong and that makes the urge to cry even stronger. “I’m sorry, Daddy,” he blurts out, eyes wide because he won’t let himself blink. “I’ll be good, I will, I’ll be really, really good—I’ll do whatever you want, don’t be sad, Daddy, I’ll—”

Daddy makes a noise that the asset thinks sounds like something being killed. He’s not supposed to be the asset now, but he’s at a loss for what to do. “I love you, Daddy,” he whispers, because that always helps. 

His daddy is wiping at his eyes. His daddy is _crying_ , and he is abruptly off of the bed, hands clenched at his sides, looking everywhere but at the boy sitting beside the teddy bear. “Bucky—” Daddy says, and the little word is so full of hurt that Bucky can’t hold back his own tears. Daddy shakes his head, breathes hard. “I—I have to go—you haven’t done anything wrong, I just—I _can’t_ —”

Daddy is gone. Staring at the space where he was standing before he almost ran out the door, Bucky feels his body begin to shake, wracked with sobs. There is no noise when he cries. There never is. The silence doesn’t make it any better, because it’s still wrong and he made his daddy cry and he must be the worst, wickedest boy in the entire world. He wants to whip at his own skin, hit and slice until he’s properly punished. Maybe then Daddy won’t be sad. But there’s nothing in the room he can use to punish himself. 

So he stays there, quietly crying, and eventually he can hear voices from the hall. 

“—need to stay calm.” It’s a woman speaking. Daddy must have asked her to come and punish Bucky, because he’s too upset to do it himself. 

“Calm?!” That’s his daddy’s voice, and it’s so wound up that Bucky flinches. “My best friend—they turned my best friend into—into—”

“A puppet for their own sexual gratification and sick humor.” Her voice is low and hard. “I know. All of Manhattan heard you the first time and I’m well aware of the sadistic, twisted things handlers can do with their charges. But he’s not your best friend right now, Steve. And he’s not the Soldier. He’s a child and you’ve probably scared him shitless.” 

Bucky straightens up, wiping at his eyes with his sleeve. He deserves whatever punishment is coming and he won’t let himself try and influence the situation with tears. 

When the red-haired woman comes into the room, she doesn’t order him up or hit him. Instead, smiling, she flops down beside him on the mattress. “Hey, Bucky. Remember me?” Her voice isn’t hard now. 

He can’t hold in a sniffle, mind blanking when he tries to use it for anything other than figuring out what he did wrong. “I…”

“It’s Tasha, silly.” She picks up the bear and presses it into his hands. “Here, you look like you need a friend. Whatcha crying about?” 

“I made Daddy sad.” His voice is so small he can hardly hear it, knuckles white around the bear. 

“Hey.” Tasha slips her arm over his shoulders and he goes still, waiting for something to hurt. “He’s not upset with you, Bucky, I swear.” 

“He was crying.” 

“He’s mad at the people you were with before you came to stay with us,” Tasha says. “They did a bad job taking care of you and taught you bad things and that’s what he’s mad at. You’re his favorite person in the whole world and he’ll never be mad at you.” 

There isn’t a laugh in her voice when she says it. He raises his head slowly, quickly looking away when their gazes meet. Bucky stares at the bear’s empty eyes again and tries to imagine a Daddy who’s never angry with him. “Really?” 

“Pinky swear.” Tasha extends a small finger to him and when the matching finger of his left hand intertwines with it, she doesn’t flinch at the cold metal. “You need to cheer up. We could watch a movie. You like Disney?” 

He thinks he remembers Disney. There was a really sad movie about a deer than he watched mostly behind his hands while his last daddy held him. But there had been fun parts of that movie too, maybe. “Uh-huh.” 

Tasha takes his left hand before he can move the bear from his right and leads him out of the room. Daddy isn’t in the hall and Tasha says that he had to go talk to Sam and Bruce about grown-up things so he can calm down. “He gets worked up easy,” Tasha says. “Don’t let it get to you.” 

They reach a common room and Tasha tells JARVIS to pull up something called Netflix. She says she doesn’t think Bucky’s ready for _Tangled_ or _Frozen_ and Bucky doesn’t argue because he’s being good and he doesn’t know what those things are. They end up watching _Aladdin_. He doesn’t like the part when the guard threatens to cut off the princess’s hand, but by the time they reach the genie, Bucky has stopped sniffling. 

Halfway through the movie, Tony Stark wanders into the room and Tasha takes a pillow from the couch. When she throws it at Tony’s head she demands, in a voice that isn’t a yell but is loud enough to make Bucky start, “Go get us some popcorn, Uncle Tony.” 

Bucky goes cold, mindful all of the punishments Tasha might face, but Tony only stares at her. “Have you scrambled your brains lately or is this a kink thi—”

Tasha gives him a suddenly hard and very grown up look and Tony shrugs, leaves. Tasha laces her fingers with Bucky’s and smiles, but the tightness doesn’t leave his chest until, to his surprise, Tony returns with a bowl of popcorn. He sets it on the couch between them, gives them a glance Bucky can’t read, then shakes his head and leaves again, muttering something under his breath. 

Bucky begins to think the adults here have a very different set of rules than what he’s used to. 

When the movie ends, she turns to look at him. The eyes that meet hers are not a child’s and not an asset’s, but something in between. “Thank you.” 

Natasha’s smile is not the wide-toothed grin from before. It is small and he is relieved to find no pity in it. “Don’t mention it.” 

*

Sometimes he understands why the switch occurs. 

He will be himself—what little self remains, scrapped together between broken programming and half-formed memories—and then he is a child. On occasion he can feel it coming and the small part of him that remembers shame tries and often fails to head it off. Most times, the change is so immediate that he has no opportunity to attempt to bury it. 

Someone’s hand will ruffle through his hair or brush against his face. A word or phrase from the television or someone’s mouth will catch him off guard. Even food can trigger it, as he finds the time he wanders into the kitchen while Pepper is cooking steak. He thinks the switch is more frequent now because there are no longer missions or ice to distract from it. Once he’s a child, no one seems to have worked out a way to bring him back beyond waiting. 

He spends a lot of time around Sam, both as the void that serves as his natural state of being, and as the mockery of a child Pierce created for his amusement. There is no anger inside him when the nature of his relationship with his former master is explained to him, no flush or rage at words such as “psychosexual abuse” and “manipulation.” He has experienced so many of what these people call indignities that his response to realizing this was yet another is mostly indifference. Indifference, and perhaps gratitude that this play hadn’t involved murdering anyone. The game had always been wrong, and while there is validation in realizing it was objectively so, there is no catharsis in the knowledge. 

And the knowing doesn’t undo the feeling. There is still that intense facade of a connection, a loneliness for his last daddy that time and distance are not healing. Pierce is dead and he was probably, objectively, a monster and he still has the last laugh. Bucky finds that typical. 

He finds it atypical—though he lacks any real baseline for comparison—that the Avengers are so accepting of this inextricable perversion. He is old enough to have fathered every one of them save for Steve, but they are willing to shelter and indulge this especially broken state of mind regardless, and they do so without any outward expectation of retribution. Perhaps they are simply that skilled at concealing disgust. 

Sam treats him about the same regardless of the mindset; the only real change in their interactions is the vocabulary. Sam is always direct, but the words are simpler when he speaks to a child. 

There is not much difference in Tony’s interactions either, though depending on Bucky’s current state of being the rules about what he can and cannot touch in the man’s workshop vary. When he is himself he is called names such as Astro Boy and Stepford Wife. When he is not, the names shift to tiger and kiddo. Mostly, though, Tony will redirect him toward Pepper or the robots, because he is “not exactly father of the year material” and doesn’t want to “deal with the fallout of fucking up Cap’s kid.” 

Pepper had smacked Tony across the back of the head when he said that before telling Bucky not to repeat that word. Pepper is nice. She put Bucky’s hair all into braids once and he didn’t enjoy it, but she is never loud or angry and he doesn’t fear punishment from her even when he makes mistakes. 

Besides Natasha, Banner is the most noticeably different. He doesn’t do much talking when Bucky is himself, preferring to listen. Or, more frequently, preferring to wait for the rare occasions when Bucky speaks. But in the other mindset, Bruce does speak to him, and often. Hundreds of little things, like “I’m happy to see you” and “You’re so special.” He never minds when Bucky isn’t sure how to answer. He says Bucky has been through so much and it’s all right if he doesn’t know what to say. 

It would be easier to believe things are all right if his daddy weren’t so unhappy. 

Bucky really does try not to think of him that way. He is broken, not stupid, and that Steve wants no part in this game—that Steve is _repulsed_ by it, by him—has not escaped his notice. In his first days there, before Bucky let slip how damaged and stained he is, Daddy almost never left his side. _I’ve got you,_ he’d said, like it was a promise. Now his appearances within the tower are the exception rather than the rule, and his time is spent tracking down what remains of HYDRA and tearing it to bloody pieces. Whenever he is back is he bruised and exhausted, and Bucky keeps his distance. He tries not to let their eyes meet; tries to ensure Steve will not even glimpse him. 

He is the source of his daddy’s pain, he and his perversions, and no matter how much he tries to will his mind to realize that Steve is a friend and a peer and not a caretaker, the need for a daddy is so deeply implanted within him that he can’t carve it out. 

The worst is realizing he doesn’t want to. 

For seventy years his life was ice and death. Those who laid hands on him were either trying to kill him or stapling wounds back together. Any touch that did not hurt, any hint of affection, however mocking, was akin to that first breath of air when the ice cleared from his lungs. He wants it, and the shame that burns deep and hot within him does not abate the desire. He wants Steve to hold him and reassure him and press his lips to Bucky’s forehead. 

He is disgusting, and his distance from his daddy is as much due to the guilt as it is the desire to spare further pain. 

“He’ll get over it,” Tasha says one morning. “He’ll spend like a month saying sorry for being dumb and not being around when you needed him.” 

They are drawing. He prefers drawing with Tasha over Sam. She never asks why the houses he draws have no doors or such big fences, never wants to talk about why he draws bodies without hands or covers pages in hearts. Bucky did not sleep last night. He can’t sleep when Daddy is away because his dreams are full of Daddy dying, full of Bucky’s own infected body poisoning his daddy when he tries to save him. 

“He shouldn’t be sorry,” Bucky mumbles. He scribbles over the face and the arm. He’d been drawing himself, but he thinks that is a waste of paper. “I’m bad.” 

“Bucky,” Tasha says. Her hand slides over his and he looks up. “You’re like, the least bad kid in the entire universe.” 

He is more docile than Tasha. She answers back and throws things and is loud without fear of repercussions. When he can think as himself, he believes this is for his benefit, to demonstrate that the adults here will not treat misbehavior as his last daddy did. She is fun and she is nice and though she misbehaves, she is not bad. She isn’t soiled the way that he is. 

“He doesn’t like me anymore.” Bucky shrugs. “It’s okay.” He can’t imagine why anyone would like him. 

“That’s not it,” Clint says. Clint spends a lot of time with them, hovering near Tasha, but he doesn’t often speak. Tasha whispered once that Clint knows what it’s like to have bad men mess with his brain for fun and it’s hard for him to talk about. She says he isn’t quiet because of something Bucky’s done, which he can’t bring himself to believe. “He cares too much, if anything.” 

Bucky almost says that he shouldn’t, but Tasha is tapping his shoulder, excited. “Hey. Know what? Thor’s gonna be here today.” 

“Who?” 

Thor turns out to be another Avenger, a prince. He isn’t around a lot because he lives far away and because being a prince is a full time job. He is tall with even longer hair than Bucky’s, and when he smiles it is like looking into the sun. 

Having spent decades in the dark, Bucky likes that. 

Thor seems to like him. He seems to like everything. He calls the metal arm beautifully crafted and Bucky almost believes that it can be anything beyond an eyesore of a weapon when the man says that. He has a hammer that Bucky cannot lift but that Thor is willing to hold out for him to examine. He talks a lot about his kingdom, Asgard, and it sounds almost like something from the book of fairy tales Tasha gave to Bucky, but new. 

And he is strong, strong enough to hold Bucky up and to spin him around, which he does because he says that Bucky ought to smile. None of the other Avengers can do that save for his daddy, who never will. His laugh is sudden and genuine for first time he can remember, and when Thor hugs him it is tight but not painful and it feels as though the prince does not want to ever let go. 

It is Bucky who breaks the contact, because his daddy comes in and slipping out of the comfort to disappear into the hallway is better than upsetting him. 

“That is your friend, the soldier of winter?” he hears Thor ask. The man’s voice carries. His daddy’s does not. 

“You are truly blessed to have him back,” Thor says. There is another pause, maybe a reply Bucky can’t catch, then, “True, the pain of realizing one you loved will never be the same as you recall is formidable. But between that and losing them all together—I have felt both and the former, however cutting, is preferable.” 

Bucky doubts that and continues down the hall. If his daddy answers, he does not hear it. 

He doesn’t hear Daddy’s voice until the nighttime. “Hey, Buck.” 

Bucky is himself, seated on the bed, trying to determine if it is worth the effort to attempt sleep. It will mean hours tossing on the mattress as his mind tries to remember how to fall unconscious without chemical aid, it will mean nightmares always and wet blankets, usually. But it has been three days since he last managed it, and the longer he goes without sleep, the higher the risk that he could become violent. 

Bucky raises his head, hardly trusting his own senses as he finds Steve in the doorway. The bear is sitting on the bed beside him because he carries the thing everywhere, and his face goes hot but he can see no way to hide it without drawing further attention to the object. 

“Can we talk?” Steve asks. 

“I’m sorry,” Bucky says. “I’m a fucking broken, sick mess and you deserve better than to put up with it. I can go—Natasha could probably find me a place somewhere, or I could just fend for myself, I—Christ, you’re a goddamn saint to live with this as long as you have, but—”

“Hey.” Steve’s voice is soft but it still demands his full attention. “I don’t want you to go anywhere.” 

“You can’t even look at me.” He laughs. It isn’t like the laugh Thor coaxed out of his damaged brain. There’s no humor or mirth to be found in it. “And I don’t know why you would want to. You’re running yourself ragged and it’s better for everyone if I go—”

“Would you shut up and listen, you jerk?” Steve sits down beside him and it’s the closest they’ve been to each other since the last time Steve sat on the bed and everything went to hell. It’s dizzying. “I didn’t chase you across the continent so you could run off whenever I need a slap to the head, all right? Yeah, it’s hard, trying to wrap my mind around everything that’s changed. It’s hard as hell. But it’s gotta be a thousand times worse for you and I’m with you ‘til the end of the line, so it’s something I’m going to have to get over. Starting now, ‘cause I’ve done enough moping as is.” 

Bucky just stares. “What are you saying?” 

“I’m saying you looked out for my scrawny ass your whole life and now it’s time for me to take care of yours.” 

There is a foreign and real emotion blossoming inside him. Bucky tries to stamp it down. “I’ll just fuck it up, Steve. I can’t even be around you without thinking of—of—”

“I know.” Steve takes his hand. It’s the left one, the one that is cold and rigid and everything little boys are not, and for that, Bucky is grateful. “I don’t care. You’re my best friend, Bucky. I can be anything you need, and I can damn well make sure I do it without hurting you.” 

Something in his chest catches, snared by that feeling he can’t name. “Anything?” 

It takes a minute for Steve to smile, but there is no lie in his face when he does. “Anything. So what do you want?” 

He is speechless, frightened. He has never desired anything more. He is exhausted and what he wants is to sleep, but if he closes his eyes he cannot imagine this opportunity will present itself ever again. So rather than close his eyes he opens his mouth and lets the first words that come to mind slip out. “Can you tell me a story, Daddy?” 

His daddy does not speak at first. He exhales slowly, jaw tight, and while Bucky does not believe this man would ever strike him, he cannot help but wait for it. But when Daddy looks back at him, his smile may not be too happy, but it is real. “What story do you want to hear?” 

Slipping off the bed, Bucky retrieves the book of fairy tales Tasha gave to him. He turns it to his favorite and hands the book to his daddy, sitting back down. Another expression he can’t read crosses Daddy’s features. “This one?” 

Bucky nods. 

Daddy hands him the bear, putting his arm over Bucky’s shoulders. He doesn’t pull away when Bucky rests his head on Daddy’s chest. “Once upon a time,” he begins, “there was a king and queen who wanted to have a child very much. After every possibility was exhausted, they prayed. Soon, the queen gave birth to a girl. A joyous celebration was declared. Now, it was the custom in the land for fairies in the kingdom to bestow gifts upon the newborn infants of the throne. But because the king only had twelve golden plates, one fairy had to be left out, for there were thirteen of them. 

“As the celebration was ending, the fairies presented the child with gifts. The first promised her virtue, the second gave her beauty and so on, each offering something desirable and magnificent. The eleventh fairy had just presented her gift when the thirteenth fairy walked in. She was very angry to be excluded and cried out, ‘Because you did not invite me, I tell you that in her fifteenth year, your daughter will prick herself with a spindle and fall over dead.’” 

His new daddy, he realizes, does _voices_ when he tells stories. His new daddy doesn’t expect a thank you when the story reaches “happily ever after,” doesn’t do anything but stroke his hair and hold him as he drifts off, doesn’t flinch at the sleepy mutter of “love you, Daddy,” that Bucky can’t help but let fall from his lips. 

When he wakes, it is from a nightmare, hyperventilating, and the sheets are wet. But there is a nightlight in the room that was not there when he fell asleep, and that vivid emotion is still in his chest. He thinks, though he can’t quite remember, that it is called hope. 

“I love you, Daddy,” he says over breakfast, experimentally and only slightly hesitant. 

“Love you too.” Daddy doesn’t look up from the tablet he is reading the newspaper on, but Bucky can see the smile regardless. “Pass the salt, would you, punk?” 

“Get it yourself, jerk,” Bucky finds himself saying, and even though he passes it a moment later with a “Sorry, Daddy” as he does, the words are not unnatural. He smiles and thinks of sunshine.

**Author's Note:**

> Bucky Bears are a real thing in the [baby Avengers comic](http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_mc4h4wa3KS1rd9v8io3_r1_1280.jpg), and then people started making real Bucky Bears and now there exist [pictures of Sebastian Stan holding one](http://ohsebastianstan.tumblr.com/post/43992110166/groovetastical-by-popular-demand-sebastian).
> 
> The accuracy is debated, but there are those who say there are [certain indicators of sexual abuse](http://www.caefwi.org/uploads/caef_brochure.pdf) in children's art, such as houses without doors, visible genitalia, excessive use of hearts, and others. Bedwetting can be an indicator of both abuse and post-traumatic stress disorder.
> 
> I haven't quite decided if Natasha experienced similar mind games to what Bucky went through, or if she's just seen enough that it doesn't phase her and she can think up coping strategies easily.
> 
> Pierce showed him _Bambi_ because 1) Pierce is a sadist and 2) it's about a deer. The asset's name was Buck. He's not just a monster, he also has a terrible sense of humor. I imagined _Tangled_ would be triggering to Bucky because of the twisted parental relationship, and _Frozen_ has the whole "people turning to ice" issue.
> 
> The text of the version of Sleeping Beauty Steve tells was made from combining the text of the [Perrault](http://acacia.pair.com/Acacia.Vignettes/Happily.Ever.After/Sleeping.Beauty.html) version with the [Grimm](http://www.pitt.edu/~dash/type0410.html#grimm) version.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [My Only Sunshine](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5128028) by [WhatEvenAmI](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatEvenAmI/pseuds/WhatEvenAmI)
  * [Dancing on Wire](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6203452) by [just_kiss_already](https://archiveofourown.org/users/just_kiss_already/pseuds/just_kiss_already)
  * [(Podfic) Love Is for Children](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12154344) by [Eleke](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eleke/pseuds/Eleke)




End file.
